


Into the Lion's Den

by Enaro



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adlock, Also my English is lame but I swear I'm doing my best, Blood and Injury, F/M, Great Hiatus, Gun Violence, I don't know how it is going to end yet, I don't think it requires Archive Warnings but just in case, I'm Sorry, I'm a chaotic writer so basically deal with it, Minor Violence, Okay I'll just stfu you can start to read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Irene Adler, Plot, Post-Reichenbach, Will probably end up fluffy because fluff is all we need
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:15:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24915226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enaro/pseuds/Enaro
Summary: When you're busy as hell but that special someone needs your help - otherwise they will be tortured for weeks in a basement and eventually succumb to their injuries or just starve to death
Relationships: Irene Adler/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 13
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Right.  
> This work was meant to be a gift; I wrote it as a catharsis. I'm sorry if it gets too dark; be assured that I'll change the ratings if I decide to include descriptions of violence (psychological AND physical), sex, or what do I know. (For now it's quite soft, but I don't trust myself to be stable, especially as a writer.)  
> Again, I'm sorry for my English; I know it's quite clumsy and even incorrect sometimes; I'd love to get better and am open to criticism. (But don't criticize my ship 'cause they're EXQUISITE. *chief's kiss*)  
> To battledress: this is the first chapter of the work I promised I'd write for you. I did not plan for it to be multi-chap, but well - things happen. Anyway - it's just the beginning, so don't worry, you'll get tons of fluff eventually \o/  
> I'll try to update that little story as frequently as possible. I don't know exactly where I'm going right now, but I'm undoubtedly going somewhere, and that's a start.  
> All right folks! I believe that the important things have been said. Now I'll just leave you with that. It's not much, but I made it with diligence, and I hope you'll enjoy it!  
> Keep calm, drink a lot, read, heal your soul.  
> Best regards,  
> Enaro

It was a very ordinary day in Houston, Texas. The sky was blue, the sun was burning, the unremitting concerto of the horn blasts barely covered the noise of the air conditioning that cooled every single building. Workers were working; students were studying; children were playing, even in class, inside their heads, while pretending to listen to their teachers. At the top of a high glass building, Irene Adler was dropping the inert body of a well-clad man onto the floor of his own office - office that she immediately began to search.

 _What a waste of time,_ she cursed for herself as she realized that the file she was looking for was definitely not inside the dark fake-wood desk. She crossed the room with furious steps, moving the man’s arm out of her way with her foot in the process. Whether she found the file or not, she would take perverse pleasure in binding him in such an intricate way that he would not be able to break free without the help of the next caretaker that would walk into the room - probably not before five in the morning. _That_ would teach him.

Honestly, she mostly felt angry towards herself. She did not care for that man; but she had taken her task lightly, and that was a mistake she would normally never make. When she had been confronted with the importer’s stupidity, she had started to think that this would be an easy job. _Such a novice,_ she kept telling herself, bitter. Things are never as easy as they seem.

The cupboard, though, looked like an ideal spot to hide a secret compartment. She began rummaging through the various items with increasing nervousness, all her senses focused on her task. If she could not get hold of that damned file, she better fly to another state. She could not afford to let her current clients become her enemies.

When her fingertips grazed the unmistakable texture of a false bottom, at the level of her thighs, she felt her heart jump with a mix of relief and delightful excitation. Now the fun was really about to begin. The importer had been disappointedly simple to seduce; from that point, to make him bring her into his office had been a child’s play. But cracking a safe without leaving any trace of her breaking, now _that_ was an interesting game.

She was expectantly running her fingers against the surface when a sound came to her ears. She stood still. It was a deep buzzing, so low that she had nearly missed it. A mobile phone.

She instinctively looked down at her target, still motionless; but the man had left his mobile in his car, she remembered. Another phone? A secret one, dedicated to his not-so-legal activities? No, he only possessed his basic work device. She would have known otherwise. It was not that.

It was her own mobile phone.

She almost ran towards the spot where she had let her purse and quickly extracted the item from it. As ever when she was working, she had silenced her phone; only a handful of her contacts could reach her. Right now, that precise call could only mean one thing.

As she brought the device to her ear, she did her best to slow her heart rate down; her blood was boiling with anticipation and anxiety. She prayed for her voice to sound steady enough as she answered.

“Yes?”

“Milady,” a male voice spoke. “Such a pleasure to hear you again.”

When you are a wanted criminal with few resources and you finally find yourself a particularly skilled informer, you do not show fussiness about his personal character traits - even when it includes bad humour and some difficulties to stay focused. Irene exhorted herself to patience.

“The timing is not ideal,” she said coolly. “What is it? Hurry up.”

“You were right,” the man replied, his tone already more professional. “We found him.”

Irene’s heart missed a bit.

“Where is he?” she asked – too hastily. She bit her lip in an effort to regain self-control.

“He’s been caught. A group of dealers of all sorts. That’s how we knew.”

“Are they related to the Web?”

“I fear so.”

She closed her eyes. She had been dreading this.

Irene had been waiting for that specific call for weeks – she had been absolutely certain that she would hear from Sherlock Holmes again –, but now that it was happening, she had no idea regarding what to do. She had work to accomplish in several areas of the world, including the task she was trying to fulfil at that exact moment – something so important that her success would guarantee her more safety than she could ever afford by herself; to leave it unfinished would not only be frustrating, but decidedly suicidal. And why would she do it? So that she could run to the other side of the world for Sherlock Holmes’ sake? She was glad that he had not perished of Jim Moriarty's hand - although it was hardly a surprise -, but if he had decided to dice with death again, it was none of her business. He was hardly an ally of hers, let alone a friend. To save his skin was no imperative, but only one of two options.

But what, exactly, was the other?

Irene sighed, straightened up, and began speaking again.

“Tell me everything you know.”

_[...]_

_Muffled humming. Faint voices. Heavy pain – diffuse, throbbing, obsessive. Acrid smell – dirt, sweat, mostly blood. Metallic taste – blood too. Swollen tongue and sore face. And nothing to be seen but darkness. ___

____

____

_Numb limbs – impossible to move. Spinning head, nausea. Sticking sweat everywhere; too hot, yet too cold._

_Hazy mind – impossible to think. Panic. Thinking is the most important thing. Must think. Can’t think. Panic._

_Sore throat, furred tongue, dry mouth – impossible to call for help. Panic. Blood leaking against skin. More blood. Panic._

_Panic._

_A louder voice, closer, just there – terror. Impossible to cry out. Words? Impossible to understand. Too vague, too fast. Blurry mind._

_A shadow – a presence. Just there, within reach. Unfamiliar voice – very unfamiliar, and very cruel. Frightening._

_Panic._

Help.

I need help.

_Impossible to speak._

I need help.

_Impossible to–_

_“… Elp…”_

_No reply but a snigger._

_Panic._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have no fear: Irene Adler is on her way.

From the moment that their eyes met, she knew the fish was hooked; the next part of her plan would go without a hitch.

The first part of it had been trickier. In a matter of days, Irene had crossed the Atlantic Ocean, questioned masses of witnesses, stolen a car and a gun, taken another flight to Norway, bought warmer clothes and procured a new ID – all of this with the utmost secrecy. Aware that she only had a limited amount of time, she had barely eaten or slept since she had left the US – just enough to make sure that she would not jeopardize her mission under the influence of exhaustion. But now, as she stood quietly at the counter of a crowded pub, she felt perfectly awake. As always when she was about to perform a perilous move, adrenaline was doing its job.

Irene swallowed a drop of her – quite revolting – beer while distractedly counting in her head. Now that her target – male, forty-something, straight, impulsive – had spotted her, it would not take him long to approach her. A well-dressed woman, in a pub, all alone, and she had deliberately met his gaze; what else could she possibly want, if not him to accost her? The fact that he held sensitive information about the many _activities_ of the gang which he belonged to did not come under consideration: the man was not used to being interrogated by pretty women with no escort. His name was Viggo Brekke, he liked dogs, watches and women, and he was convinced of one thing: he was about to spend a delightful evening.

Irene had not even reached thirty seconds when she felt a large hand settle down on her shoulder. The sudden sensation of that foreign palm pressed against her skin was far from pleasant, but she had definitely been through worse, and after all, it was a necessary evil. When she turned to face the newcomer, it was with a perfectly feigned look of surprise and her most innocent grin.

“ _God aften_ ”, the man said. His voice was deep and sweet, but a couple of broken teeth prevented him from looking actually charming.

“I’m sorry”, she replied with a confused smile. “I can’t speak Norwegian. Do you…?”

“No problem”, he assured. “Everyone speaks English here.”

Irene thought he had a surprisingly thick accent, but she confined herself to smiling wider. Although her knowledge of Norwegian was indeed very limited, she was positive that she could have held that conversation with the few basic sentences which she had learnt on the plane. That being said, the “lonely-tourist-with-no-knowledge-of-the-place trick” was a safe bet, and one that she particularly treasured; and if the satisfied expression in her new acquaintance’s eyes was to be trusted, its efficiency was once more about to be established.

“Where are you from?” Viggo went on. She was decidedly lovely to look at. He prepared himself to show his finest manners.

They kept chatting this way for the next whole hour, both wearing continuously their mask of complete innocence. Irene made sure that she appeared to him as the perfect target: cheerful, curious and carefree, eager to discover new places and meet new people. She accepted all the drinks that he bought her – including another mug of that dreadful beer, which she emptied with a feeling of inevitability –, letting him believe that he had earned her trust. Viggo’s affable grin and courteous behaviour could not dissimulate his impatience to her practised senses, and she quickly found herself jubilating as she realized that this would be much easier than she had foreseen… but she strove to remain on her guard: beneath the man’s thick layer of bluntness, male chauvinism and self-interest lay an unexpected fount of cunning and readiness.

Nevertheless, Viggo was well and truly following Irene into the trap that she had designed for him. She was rather proud of the subtlety of her ploy: she acted in a way that would assuredly encourage her prey to go ever further, but with the right amount of prudishness, so that he would believe himself as the one steering the conversation. She played him with the same dexterity she had always shown, just like a spider lovingly weaving a particularly intricate, flawless web.

And the moment came when Viggo was completely entrapped, and yet he had not even realized that he was in danger.

When he leaned towards her and wrapped his large hand over her fingers, catching them between his palm and her cold mug, she could not prevent her body from tensing reflexively. A sudden, burning wave of adrenaline hit her, and her jaw abruptly contracted, sending a shot of pain from her chin to her temples. Fortunately, Viggo was now too carried away to notice the least change in her stance; he only stepped closer and bent over her – this was one of those moments when she felt desperately small – until she could hear him whisper into her ear.

When he straightened back up, Irene had regained her composure. She stared at him in silence and nodded once, her lips spread in a sinful smile.

The last act had begun.

As soon as they left the pub, Viggo wrapped his arm around her shoulders; Irene’s grasp on her purse instinctively tightened. As discreetly as she could manage, she kept glancing around as her new companion led her through an interminable maze of lanes, mentally cursing the unfamiliar environment in which she found herself forced to progress. The man was speaking loud and clear, promising her that he would show her the best parts of the town, and many other things that she did not really listen to – her mind unable to focus on anything else than his threatening embrace, along with what was going to follow. Sooner rather than later.

Actually, the spot where they were standing at this exact moment seemed perfectly adequate.

“Where exactly are we going?” she asked, stopping dead. “Is it far yet? I’ve been walking all day long… I’m tired.”

“Not at all.” Viggo’s tone was all sweetness and light. “My flat is a stone’s throw away.”

“I’d rather head back to the centre, actually. We’ve already got quite far from my hotel…”

His nostrils flared as a glint of impatience flashed in his eyes. Trying to conceal his irritation, he dipped his head and chose his smoothest voice to whisper to her face:

“I’ll drive you back to your hotel later, I promise. Or we can go there right now, together. Unless…”

Viggo took a slow step that got her pinned against the nearest wall.

“… you don’t fear the cold – then, we can just… stay here for a bit.”

In any other situation, Irene would have rolled her eyes. Give a man some hope and a deserted street, and that will be enough to drive him insane. Instead, she just grinned and addressed him a challenging look.

“I can barely feel it,” she assured, her tone as sweet as honey.

Viggo did not reply. All that he could think about was the gun barrel that was suddenly pressed against his rib cage.

The alley turned silent all at once, save for the meaningful sound of the safety catch being removed. The man lowered his widened eyes on Irene’s hand, steady and tight around her weapon; then he looked back up to her face, astonishment written plainly over his face. One of his hands twitched.

“I’d stay still, if I were you”, Irene casually said.

It sufficed to freeze her opponent, whose features seemed to darken as his surprise gradually gave way to a boiling rage. He had seemingly understood that she was not playing a game.

“What do you want?” he grunted.

“What could I possibly want?”

At first, Viggo did not reply. In fact, in his defence, the number of possible answers to this question was quite impressive; Irene knew very little about his gang, but it seemed to undertake a rather various range of activities.

She stroked lightly the butt of her gun with her thumb, satisfied with how the situation had evolved. She had always relished these moments when she had the absolute upper hand, when her superiority could not be debated – when she was about to _crush_ her adversary and they knew it well. She liked to make sure that her prey felt like a cornered, wounded buck. More specifically, she enjoyed (far beyond reason) that fleeting moment when she could see in the other’s eyes the sudden realization of their inevitable doom. And they _actually_ did not stood a chance against her; contrary to what she happened to claim, she was rarely disposed to show mercy.

Right now, the increasing anxiety of the man had the smooth taste of revenge. Back in the pub, he had seen nothing more than a lost, naive tourist; and although that had been precisely Irene’s point, she could not help but loathe being thought of as an easy target. Seeing the roles reversed, at last, was slightly soothing her humiliation.

Despite all this internal gloating, Irene kept a stolid expression. She moistened her bottom lip before speaking, articulating slowly, her voice soft:

“There is a man.” She paused briefly, then added: “A detective.”

Taking her time, she pressed the gun a little harder into his abdomen.

“British. You captured him a dozen days ago.”

She looked deeply into Viggo’s eyes, digging into his soul to extract the truth. She wanted to make very clear that she was ready to do absolutely _anything_ in order to figure out the whole story.

“Where is he?”

For a moment, the man just glared at her in silence. Irene could nearly see the wheels in his mind run in a desperate attempt to fully comprehend the ins and outs of the situation.

“Who are you?” he finally asked.

“Hardly relevant”, Irene retorted, raising her eyebrows, “–and none of your business.”

The gun quivered threateningly.

“So? It’s getting quite late. I’m sure you have much better to do than to just stand there in the cold.”

“ _I can barely feel it_ ”, Viggo bit back through his gritted teeth.

Irene exhaled amusedly; then she lowered the gun and pulled the trigger.

The loud bang echoed in the murky, narrow street. Viggo started and looked down in panic, gazing at the spot between his feet where the bullet had hit the ground; there, a thin column of smoke was rising from the damaged tarmac. Irene thought that she was decidedly fond of that weapon.

The barrel then returned casually to its place against the man’s thorax, and he raised his eyes again, only to meet with her hard, forbidding stare. He was so tall that the top of Irene’s head barely reached his shoulders, and his large hands could probably have crushed her skull like a soda can; but it did not matter as long as both her gun and gaze conveyed the same deadly message.

“ _Where is he?_ ” she asked again, emphasizing each word carefully.

“Where is _who_?” Viggo spat.

Irene’s eyes narrowed as she warned him: “I really don’t have time for this kind of game.”

“That’s right, you don’t. The whole district must have heard your shot… You’d better run before the police shows up.”

“The police?” Irene sneered. “Don’t play the fool. We both know that no officer with the slightest bit of self-preservation would ever risk their neck in this part of the city.”

“Maybe not. But _my_ guys won’t have such reservations.”

“I hope not. I’m sure that at least one of your friends has all the information that I need… Perhaps they will be glad to swap it for your poor little life…? Honestly, the opposite would be extremely annoying – for both of us.”

By way of a response, Viggo merely exhaled through his nostrils. He seemed to be even more furious than concerned now. His eyes kept flying from her face to the gun to the corner of the street, his mouth stubbornly shut. Irene could not believe that the man was actually hoping for his fellow thugs to rush over and rescue him out of nowhere; irrational expectancies would always make her feel like she was facing a child.

Running out of patience, she mentally counted up to five, leaving the man a last chance; then she pointedly sighed and pulled the trigger again.

Thanks to a quick movement of her arm, the bullet went to lodge in Viggo’s thigh instead of his chest. He nevertheless let out a short cry of combined surprise and pain, both hands impulsively flying to his leg. A precise slap on his cheek immediately called him to order.

The man stood still with a moan, staring at her with renewed fright. Imperturbable, Irene raised her arm once more. The weapon pressed hard against his heart.

_[...]_

Around half an hour later, Irene Adler put her gun back into her purse, rearranged her hair as best she could, and tightened her coat around her body before vanishing into the maze of streets – leaving Viggo Brekke’s unconscious body behind her, stretched out on the icy asphalt, bathing in his own blood.

_[...]_

Get me out of here. _The only coherent sentence that his blurred mind could formulate._

_“Get me outta here…”, he let out laboriously – but his voice was weak, hoarse and unintelligible._

_It hurt too much._ Everything _hurt. His wounds, his head, his lungs, the chains at his wrists and ankles. Out of distress, he had tried to break free from those by rotating his hands until they came loose, the way he would have done with ropes; but of course the cold metal had had the last word, and the rough inside of the handcuffs had slashed his soft flesh, turning his wrists into bleeding tatters._

_Sudden sound, not that far from where he was lying – voices._

_He tried again: “… ‘t me out of… out of…”_

_Fleer. “No, mate. We’re not done with you yet.”_

No. _No, not that voice. Not again._ That _voice, all in asperities and hidden fierceness, that sardonic tone was anything but auspicious; it only implied relentless questioning, long hours of denied sleep, and pain, even more pain._

_“So”, said the nightmarish voice – far too close to his ear. “What are the news today? Anything you’d like to share with us?”_

_Through his swollen eyelids, he could see his torturer’s twisted grin._

_Sherlock let out a desperate whimper._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Confine me, let me be the lesser of a beautiful man_   
>  _Without the blood on his hands_   
>  _Come and make me a martyr, come and break my feeling with your violence_   
>  _Put a gun on my head_
> 
> Archive, _Bullets_

The building was in better condition than Irene had expected. When she had been advised to look for a hotel that had fallen into disuse many years ago, she had reflexively pictured some ancient block of greyish cement threatening to give way under the weight of time. In fact, although austere, the building still looked reasonably nice, with its many windows, its solid frontage and its old-fashioned – and completely dysfunctional – neon sign. Had Irene been less meticulous, or self-confident, she might have reassessed the efficacy of her methods.

However, as she walked stealthily toward the facade, she spotted a few tell-tale details (the tough remains of an old blood stain, a handful of bullet holes, and so on) of its most recent occupiers’ activities. Irene’s heart rate speeded up exponentially as she stopped in front of the rusty, half-hidden service entrance that seemed to be her safest way in. She slowly pulled her gun out of her coat pocket, caressing it briefly before clenching her fingers around the grip.

It had grown very familiar, that weapon; since the beginning of her impromptu journey, Irene had often felt reassured by grazing its shape through some folded shirt in her bag, or by feeling its unmistakable weight in the wide pocket of her coat. Although she endeavoured to use it as seldom as possible, it had admittedly become a more and more welcomed presence as days went by and Irene had to force her way through that unknown, inhospitable territory.

The woman licked her frozen lips and stared at the door, bracing herself before breaking in. Then she exhaled slowly and her heartbeat finally calmed down a little. She was ready.

_Time to burn this place down._

_[...]_

_His lungs were burning as they held his head under the water and despite his best efforts he swallowed that water and struggled in vain and drowned. Again._

_He could not see anything but the blinding light behind his eyelids and he knew his heart would explode soon – but all of the sudden they pulled on his hair and he could miraculously breathe again and the air that entered his organs was icy and sharp and_ good.

_Life was coming back to him. He could feel his nose, lips, neck and limbs again. Then someone asked something – bad English, unrecognizable words. His mouth was sealed anyway, trapped in frost and oblivion. He did not know what they wanted from him and he did not care to remember what he seemed to have forgotten._

_He paid no attention to whatever question he was being asked – it was so good to be breathing again._

_But then his head was being pushed again into the freezing water and he drowned for what felt like the thousandth time._

_[...]_

Such a place would have driven any normal mind completely insane. It was a dull succession of wide corridors, all identical and frightfully dark at the spots that the already feeble daylight, dispensed only by a few dusty windows, could not reach. There was not a living soul (not even a rat or a spider), not a breeze, not a colour; even the sound of Irene’s footsteps was absorbed by the thick, faded carpet, and she was left with nothing to hear but her own heartbeat. It was just as though time had frozen one day, trapping the old hotel into an atemporal world; a few things – an ashtray, a half-ripped newspaper, a broken comb – lay here and there like the neglected relics of a brighter era, only contributing to the building’s desolated and frankly macabre atmosphere.

Yet Irene kept walking through the dusty maze, her senses on the alert and her fingers tight around the gun. As gloomy as the place was, it was not nearly as frightening as the thought of what she would discover in the depths of that lair. What kind of crime scene would she come upon? Would she find herself overwhelmed with the smell of rot and blood? Would Sherlock Holmes still be alive by the time she found him?

That last question had been unabatedly spinning in her head since the day she had heard about his situation on the phone; every time she inadvertently put it into words, her heart started pounding as though it was about to explode. For the umpteenth time, Irene vehemently pushed the thought away. Sherlock’s death was, after all, objectively improbable; she doubted that anyone related – directly or not – to Moriarty would underestimate the cost of his life. Forcing herself to loosen marginally her grip around the gun, she bit her lip – a physical stimulus that she knew would help her remain focused – and took a deep breath. She firmly refused to be the victim of her own turbulent mind, and even less of the labyrinthine creation of some architect with questionable taste.

In light of what she had learned from her last target, the door to the basement – broad and chipped off, with a heavy padlock – was unmistakable. It was also, Irene soon found out, sinfully simple to pick. Past this door was a dark, dangerous place, full of unpredictable and ruthless predators; past this door, somewhere in the shadows, Sherlock Holmes was waiting for her. Without a beat, letting the heavy door close behind her, Irene slipped into the abyss.

Standing still in the thick obscurity, which barely allowed her to discern the beginning of a flight of steps, she entrusted her situation to her other senses. To her great frustration, she could not hear anything except her uneven breathing and her fast, erratic pulse. Her skin had started to shiver uncontrollably against the cold, humid air; yet as Irene took a careful step toward the stairs, she felt an unexpected puff of warmth skim her face. Oh, it was light, subtle, nearly imperceptible; but it _was_ there. This minuscule, lukewarm breeze seemed to find a way to her heart and to set it ablaze; and she smirked at the thought of standing so close to completion. Whoever she would meet down there was not a predator, but a prey – and no enemy could possibly be prepared for the storm that she was going to unleash against them.

As she began her descent, as quiet and lethal as Death herself, Irene felt her blood suddenly come alive.

_[...]_

_“Just let him rot in those rags for one more night,” the Voice said. “I’m sure_ that _will make him reconsider.”_

 _Oddly, the suggestion sounded more like a reward than like a threat. Of course, Sherlock knew that his conditions would not allow him to rest properly, but he still felt immensely relieved at the thought of a break from this purgatory. Drops of freezing water fell from his heavy hair and trickled all over his face, neck and torso; his limbs were burning from the uncountable blows that he had received. He could not tell whether he was feeling too cold or too hot – actually, he was not even certain to be alive at this point._ And they believe I’ll be more likely to tell them anything valuable after several more hours in that hell? _The idea was so absurd that he could not repress a sudden burst of laughter._

_The sound – more similar to an exhausted, miserable panting – had barely slipped out of his mouth when a hand grabbed his hair and roughly pulled his head backwards, cutting it off at once._

_“What’s so funny, mate?”_

_The Voice was incredibly smooth – almost_ gentle _compared to the fingers clutching Sherlock’s hair like a talon. That was, in truth, precisely what made it so detestable in his ears._

_“You’ve gone nuts – haven’t you, mate? Yes, I can tell. Damn, look at yourself…”_

_The owner of the Voice pulled harder at Sherlock’s soaked hair, making him moan at the burst of pain in his neck. All of the sudden, he realized that he had no more control over his actions. That fact left him completely indifferent._

_“Well, mark my words: I can’t see anything funny here. Understand? I can think of, like, at least fifty-thousand more entertaining activities than babysitting your weird bloody ass.” He sighed before adding, a few inches away from Sherlock’s ear: “Between you and me, mate – if I could, I’d just finish you off, and that’d settle the score.”_

_Sherlock was barely listening now; he was unable to focus on anything else than the man’s poor dentition. You would think that such a horrible feature would prevent anyone to grin like that._

_The feeling of a sharp blade against his Adam’s apple, however, seemed to bring him back from his wandering._

_“I can’t wait to slit your throat, mate,” the Voice whispered. “Please,_ please _, stop keeping me waiting…”_

_The blade pressed slightly harder against Sherlock’s throat, and he vaguely considered screaming – but before he could even try, the deadly weight was gone._

_“Maybe you’d be more willing with fewer toes,” his persecutor said as he released Sherlock’s hair and stood up. “I could cut them one after another, starting with the little ones… Yeah, sounds good.” The blade made a scraping sound. “I’ll_ definitely _do that.”_

_And there was an alarmingly sinister snort._

_But then another voice rang out, filling the room despite the distance:_

_“I highly recommend you not to.”_

_Sherlock was struck by a blast of chaotic emotions as he instantaneously recognized the voice._

_It was the Woman’s._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe me, writing such a little chapter takes MUCH LONGER than I expected. I think I had never realized how hard those things could be before I started working on it.  
> I wish writing was my job. Then I could spend hours and hours before my computer or bending over a few sheets of paper. But I chose a path that doesn't allow me to do so - for now.  
> However, I am to go back into quarantine from tomorrow to next Christmas (approximately), so maybe I'll be able to find a more sustained pace in my writing (???).  
> Anyway! In the meantime - here is Chapter 3! I hope you'll enjoy it. I should post some other work soon!  
> Take care of yourselves, spend time your families and friends if you can, and don't forget to read and write!  
> Love,
> 
> Enaro


End file.
